Nothing seemed wrong, not entirely. Small clues, like the
way the cereal pack was inside the fridge and the milk on the shelf. The sky
was draped in rainy fuzz, it came all the way down to the ground. It wasn't
cold as winter, but it wasn't warm. Daffodils were opening up. They shivered in
the wind. I was writing in the past tense, I noticed: it had been an
unconscious choice. A sense of grief pervaded.
A sorrow that could pour out and down and seep into
unfrozen ground; touch the waking seed, the feathery splay of root; and up will
grow such fabulous blooms, such tender shoots: raw at first then weathered in
and growing, always growing into something that spreads out like branches;
gives out limbs to climb and dangle heels from and think of childhoods; a shade
for quiet thought; blossoms for the beauty of fun; fruits that ripen,
nourishing, fermentable, bringing cheer.
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